“I do not know you,” she said coldly. Now we meet again, and you will scarcely look at me. It is you who took my name, not I yours. The world, she discovered, with these matters barred had no particular place for her at all, nothing for her to do, except a functionless existence varied by calls, tennis, selected novels, walks, and dusting in her father’s house. Spurling bit her lips to conceal her mirth.
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